


breathe and you'll miss it

by ImperialEvolution



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Discussion of Mental Health, Dissociation, If you can call it that..., Kepler Has Feelings, Kepler's a big drama nerd and I love him, Let Kepler say y'all 2k19, M/M, Shakespeare Quotations, Social Anxiety, he's just very bad at them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 22:10:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18107477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialEvolution/pseuds/ImperialEvolution
Summary: “But if there be yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity as a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it,” he clips, every syllable over pronounced to perfection, the staccato of his voice still flowing with the gentle pentameter. “The dream's here still: even when I wake, it is without me, as within me; not imagined, felt.”





	breathe and you'll miss it

**Author's Note:**

> Alternately titled: "Alice imprints all of her dissociative bullshit and sleep deprivation on to Jacobi"

For all the glamour that’s associated with y’know, working for Goddard Futuristics, the most wealthy tech conglomerate in the world and being, despite Kepler’s insistence to the contrary, a spy, Jacobi doesn’t actually get to do this kind of thing often.

And by this kind of thing, he means stepping into the sixth circle of hell.

The hall he stands in now is full of the kind of people who don’t even blink and the crystalline chandeliers overhead or the fact the suit he’s wearing costs more than his left arm. He sees trappings of Cutter’s three-pieces on every man, can still hear the echoes of his oil slick voice as he explains exactly how important his mission is to him and the company, mostly through threats of bodily harm.

What information Miss Ophélie Dupont could have that’s so vital is beyond him, but Jacobi’s never been one to read mission dossiers. It clicks pretty quickly when Kepler addresses her as _ambassador_.

Kepler’s doing plenty of talking for the both of them, though, content in letting Jacobi sit, monitoring the air for any sound of danger. He can barely focus on Kepler’s voice through the sharp sounds of shoes on the marbled white floors, stabbing peels of fake laughter. It sets Jacobi’s teeth on edge.

“Isn’t that right, Mister Torrez?” Kepler turns to him, expectant. Oh yeah, fake names. It’s his long-story-short voice, and he suddenly feels a rush of pity for the ambassador.

Dupont, for her part, seems completely enraptured by Kepler’s story, poor lady doesn’t know any better.

“Oh yeah, you shoulda been there.” The words come out slightly sluggish as if he’d never said them at all. Kepler gives him a weird look that he barely has time to notice before he’s back to Dupont, all silken smiles and winding tales.

There’s a clinking of glasses, and Jacobi turns to glare at the obnoxious asshole so managed to make it so damn loud, but he can’t see anything overzealous in anyone’s celebrations. Someone’s shoes scuff behind him and he subdues a flinch.

Dupont laughs lightly, and the sound is far from ugly, but it makes Jacobi clench his fists.

Oh. Oh no.

He can’t stay here, he thinks, as air thrashes to stay away from his lungs. He sucks in a sharp breath to try regain control, but all it earns him is a sharp look from the ambassador. The cool grey of her eyes makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

“I—” he cringes at how loud it sounds, too agitated to really care about the glare Kepler give him. “I have to go. Sorry,” he tacks on as an after-thought, though he doubts either of them would care if he stopped breathing.

He’s already walking before anyone can say another word. He _has_ to leave, he has to leave or else he’ll start tearing into other people’s throats with his bare teeth. It’s either that or completely break down.

He can feel Kepler’s gaze, a steel cold barrel on the back of his neck and he wants to throw up. Air, some fresh air. Breathing’s a thing.

He nearly barrels through the glass door in his effort to reach the balcony, which he’s pleased to see is empty. It takes him all of half a second to realise why. Even with the thick cotton of his suit jacket, the biting air still drives fine, needled teeth into his collarbones. Jacobi shivers at the liquid cold settling in veins, though it feels more of a secondhand reaction than his own skin, his head too fuzzy to note it.

The world is blurry around him, his focus ebbing and flowing. His contacts must have fallen out. He pats himself, searching hazily for his glasses. He slips them on but the lens does little to help his swaying focus. Honestly, fuck his eyesight.

His hands skate to his pocket, past the holstered handgun at his hip (“Precautionary, Mister Jacobi,” Kepler assured. “I’d request you don’t shoot anyone until I do.”) to the packet of cigarettes. It feels like his hands are dragging through fluid as he places the nicotine bullet between his teeth, stuttering and alien. He’s not sure if they’re shaking because cold or the anxiety.

The lighter in his breast pocket is lightly scratched, general misuse and exposure to ballistics will do that to you. (Jacobi would know.) It was a present, a birthday or something. Kepler ought to have known better than to indulge Jacobi’s bad habits, but it’s honestly lit more molotovs than cigarettes. He shouldn’t be relapsing into old addictions, he knows, as he flicks the lighter. If the familiar burn in his throat can’t be Kepler then this’ll do, cheap substitute though it is.

As he draws smoke into his lungs, the clamouring in his head subsides a little, settling into a vague, distant hum. He focuses on Maxwell’s soothing voice in his head. _Use your diaphragm, in for four seconds. Hold for seven. Good, that’s good. Now out for eight. And again. You’re okay_.

(It’s still air, even laced with nicotine.)

There’s a dull pain in his hand and he looks down to see the cigarette burning low, close to his tightly clenched fingers. He tries to resume his train of thought but there’s nothing to retrieve, just vast stretches of empty space.

What was he doing here? There was the mission, he knew, and the, the— _Jesus Christ_ —the party, Kepler, the woman, and and and

Fuck, he can’t _think_ , can’t speak, _God_.

Speak of the devil, Kepler is suddenly next to him—how long he’s been there, Jacobi can’t say—prising the stub of a cigarette from his grip, flicking it off the balcony. Jacobi watches it spiral red into the dark. His gaze locks there, where the cigarette last flared, the world hazing again.

Jacobi snaps back with an unpleasant jerking feeling, Kepler’s, “Jacobi,” jagged enough at the edges to tell him this was not the first time he’d called his name.

Jacobi forces himself to look at him, monolithic and harsh as he seems, enhaloed by the soft candlelight diffusing through his hair. He seems so unfazed by the cold and the too loud people in the room just metres away, so above it all. How he always seems so in control is a mystery to Jacobi, especially because he knows full well what lingers, crawling and cruel, under his cool surface, something frenzied and angry and—oh, that look (hard eyes and pursed lips, a single, deadly eyebrow raised) can only mean he’s waiting for a response to whatever he’d been saying, shit.

“Sorry, uh, what was that?”

Kepler frowns, brow furrowing. His hand grips at Jacobi’s shoulder and he doesn’t flinch at the sudden movement.

“Sir,” he amends as hastily as his head will allow him, but it doesn’t change Kepler’s expression, only making his hand drift closer to his neck.

“Y’all alright, Jacobi?” he asks, a candle to his usual wildfire, softer than he has any right being. Blunt nails scuff at his collar, the gentle brush of thumb against his clavicle and Kepler’s here and he’s now.

It’s all Jacobi can do to shake his head slightly, too out of it to form words.

Kepler hums as he thinks, resorting to fiddling with Jacobi’s tie. He’s nervous, Jacobi realises. This is new territory for him, something that can’t be solved by yelling or a carefully placed blade. ~~It’s kinda cute.~~

“What will the ambassador think if she sees you like this?” Jacobi slurs and he swears he’s not drunk, it’s just such an effort to mumble those words.

Kepler shrugs. “There are other, more fun ways to get that information.”

Jacobi leans into him, guided forward by Kepler’s hand, resting his forehead on Kepler’s collarbones, rising and falling with his steady breathing. “What, a good old seduction isn’t fun now?”

Kepler tucks his head against Jacobi’s, breath soft on his cheekbones as he says, “Not her,” accompanied by a soft squeeze at the back of his neck. Jacobi dares to believe it means, _Only you_. (The thought sends dizzying spirals down his spine.) “Do you want to go home?”

By home, he means the scummy hotel rooms Goddard so graciously allowed them, though the soft bed and solitude sound nothing short of a miracle. But… “The mission—”

“Can wait, Jacobi. I meant what I said.” Kepler shifts, bringing his hand under Jacobi’s jaw, gently lifting his chin. “I need to know you’re alright.”

Jacobi pushes away from him, ignoring how his sight blurs. “I’ll be—” his hand slaps against the balcony rail, gripping it for dear life as the floor tilts under his feet— “fine.”

Kepler looks thoroughly unimpressed. In fact, he’s got that face again, the searching eyes and muscle in his jaw working. “Don’t lie, Jacobi, not to me.”

“I… I don’t want to be here, sir.”

Kepler’s eyes stray to the ambassador through the glass windows, the calculating sheen to them so familiar. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Okay. Just… stay close, Jacobi.”

His eyes flick to Jacobi, resting there with the weight of three-inch thick iron doors. The seconds bleed into eternities as Kepler rests a hand heavy on his arm. A squeeze and he’s gone, striding through the glass doors without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

Jacobi stills, slowly peeling his grip from the railing, before following, obedient as Kepler expects. He drifts in Kepler’s wake as he approaches the ambassador, gritting his teeth against the overlapping conversations around him.

The ambassador accepts Kepler’s winning smile with the lazy confidence of someone who has never cared about a thing in their life. “Glad you’re back, Mister Brahe, I was just discussing with Doctor Kercher here the benefits of—” Jacobi can already feel his attention slipping, her words washing meaninglessly over him. He digs his fingernails into his wrist, anchoring himself and swimming back toward the conversation.

Kepler’s lazy drawl, familiar and grounding, wraps around the words, “—to leave, unfortunately, my colleague ought to be taken home before he has even more champagne.”

Wait, what’s _that_ supposed to mean? He hasn’t been drinking all evening, as much as he would _love to_. “‘M not drunk,” he protests, gaze fixed on Kepler’s shoes.

He can feel Miss Dupont’s eyes on him, a pointed glare.

“Quite.” There’s a weight off his chest as soon as she addresses Kepler, “That is most unfortunate, Mister Brahe. I was rather enjoying your company.” The traces of a French accent brush the back of Jacobi’s neck, light silk that makes the hair there stand on end.

“Well, there’s nothing to say we can’t enjoy each other’s company later.” Kepler dips his voice, leaning conspiratory into Dupont’s space, a touch to skim her upper arm.

As much as Jacobi hates it, Kepler’s a damn fine actor when he wants to be. And the specific brand of smile he throws at her, the way his eyes skate over her body, it’s all very convincing. And how Jacobi hates it.

“Here,” Kepler wraps forefinger and thumb around Dupont’s wrist, “Let me give you my number.” Kepler produces a fountain pen (of course it’s a goddamn fountain pen, why wouldn’t it be?) and sketches the number of the burner phone into her skin.

Jacobi watches Dupont’s collarbones rise sharply as Kepler presses a kiss into her knuckles, watches her eyes widen as Kepler murmurs, “I’d love to see more of you, Miss Dupont.” And he smiles—no, smirks, dropping a wink as he turns to leave.

(It’s That smirk, the one that Jacobi thought was reserved just for him, cocky and crooked, flashes of white teeth against dark shadows. The one that’s accompanied by strong hands pinning his wrists to the walls, the brush of lips in a whisper at his throat, soft comments and entendres that can only be taken one way when there’s _nothing_ between them. It’s That goddamn smirk, the one that belongs to Jacobi as much as it does Kepler.)

The smirk drops the second he can afford it and some small, ruined part of Jacobi’s heart relishes in it. “C’mon, Mister Torrez, let’s go.”

It takes Jacobi a full second to realise that he’s talking to him. It only fully clicks when Kepler steers him toward the exit with a hand between his shoulder blades.

Walking is good. This is good. Jacobi just focuses on his feet instead of Kepler’s hand, warm and solid at his back and the tiny glances he spares him, something unreadable and tight in his eyes. He focuses so hard on each step that he barely notices Kepler’s arm shift around him. He focuses on his feet instead of how Kepler’s hair is starting to unslick, one or two stray hairs dragging their way towards his eyes. Definitely doesn’t think about Kepler until his footsteps feel so entirely foreign that he’s floating.

Kepler’s arm, formerly slung companionably around his shoulder, slips to his waist the second they breach into the crisp air of the night, Kepler quietly requesting that Brahe’s car is brought around to a tired looking usher.

“I’m not drunk, sir,” he says, softer than before, as he presses into Kepler’s side.

Kepler smiles into Jacobi’s hair. “I know, Daniel.”

Jacobi closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing. In for three, four. Hold for five, six, seven. Breathe out, six, seven, eight.

Kepler taps his hips, stealing his attention to murmur a gentle, “Car’s here. Don’t fall asleep on me yet.”

Jacobi smirks at the thought. He’s not that much of a mess, even as he’s struggling to process what _car’s here_ means.

His eyes open, what little light there is from the street lamps and the hall behind them too bright, too sharp, radiant daggers in his retina. He blinks, eyes adjusting as he makes his way to the passenger seat.

As they drive, the elegant rustic theatres and sharp linear high rises give way to shallow blurs and less classy establishments.

“Are you sure this isn’t a dream?” Jacobi mumbles, watching the city, neon lights and uninspired concrete, merge to a single frame in the window.

The look Kepler throws him is curious and reserved, upturned eyebrows and tilted head. “But if there be yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity as a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it,” he clips, every syllable over pronounced to perfection, the staccato of his voice still flowing with the gentle pentameter. “The dream's here still: even when I wake, it is without me, as within me; not imagined, felt.”

Jacobi struggles at the best of times to find meaning in the Elizabethan tongue, and this is _far_ from the best time. But Kepler’s voice, the quality of it, rehearsed and familiar, it feels so much like home.

“Is that a… yes, or?”

Kepler chuckles. “I’m pretty sure it’s not a dream, Jacobi.”

Jacobi smiles despite having no real reason to. “You could just be saying that. Throwing me off.”

“Perhaps.” Kepler’s lips quirk in an effort not to smile. There’s a long pause, Jacobi’s mind drifting from fuzz to noticing incredible details in the neon around them, until—

“Would you want to wake up? If it were?”

Jacobi stops drumming his fingers on the car door, unsure of what rhythm he’d be dazedly following, focusing on dissecting Kepler’s question. There’s more to his words than Jacobi can understand. He watches him, his eyes intent on the road, jaw set in a way that says just how little, how much, he cares about Jacobi’s answer.

He settles on, “No, sir,” after pulling himself in enough to respond. “No, I wouldn’t.”

The grin Jacobi catches out of the corner of his eye is brilliant and far too distracting for anyone’s good. Right answer, then.

Jacobi relaxes back into his seat, watches his own fingers tap to a rhythm he does not know.

The car door slamming shut echoes off the concrete of the parking lot, setting Jacobi’s jaw to a hard line. The other cars line the walls like sentries and he has to roll his shoulders to shrug off the weight of the air.

Kepler takes his hand, gentle fingertips brushing the inside of his palm before twining between his. He doesn’t say a word of explanation, instead leads him through the maze of cars, the sharp sounds of his shoes echoing in the complex and in Jacobi’s head.

Jacobi doesn’t remember much of the short walk to the hotel, but he’s distantly aware of the long staircase he nearly falls down. Well, he doesn’t remember the stairs, but he remembers his swimming vision and the pitching feeling as the world slips, swinging an aluminium bat at his windpipe as it falls.

And then, and then, and then Kepler, his arm wrapped around him, the world steadying under his strong grip. Kepler is staring at him, gaze flat and sharp, like a well-crafted switchblade, almost expectant.

“Thanks,” Jacobi mumbles, clinging to Kepler’s arm as he steadies himself.

Kepler hums, and the world is tilting again as Kepler hoists Jacobi into the air, one hand beneath his knees, the other under his back. If Jacobi were with it, he’d make some sort of noise of squawking protest, but he’s not, so he mumbles said protests instead.

The rest of the trip is quiet as Jacobi falls into the rhythm of Kepler’s footsteps.

It’s the burst of light as they enter the lobby that drags Jacobi to. He opens his eyes to catch Kepler’s brief nod hello to the man behind the counter, who, to his credit, doesn’t bat an eyelid to see them, the two men in suits who requested an unlisted booking, curled around each other at what Jacobi is sure is a ridiculous hour.

Jacobi presses the button to the elevator, partially in an effort to convince Kepler he’s not entirely catatonic. The elevator makes his stomach drop as it moves. _Focus on Kepler,_ he reminds himself. _He won’t drop you._ Really, Kepler has no reason to be carrying him. It’s not like Jacobi is injured, he can still stand.

Not that he’s complaining, of course, Kepler’s arms are very nice. But it’s the principle of the thing, Jacobi thinks, as he snuggles further into Kepler’s grip, his hands curling into soft fists against his chest. The elevator dings and Kepler starts walking again, the disconnect between his movement and his body makes Jacobi feel even more like he’s floating, drifting aimlessly through the thick liquid air.

Jacobi cracks an eye open, absently counting the numbers on the doors as they go by. _31, 33, 35, 37…_ wait, wasn’t thirty-seven Kepler’s room? The idea of Jacobi being alone and dazed, just a dozen suffocating feet from Kepler’s door is terrifying.

But Kepler keeps walking. Jacobi’s world is spinning and Kepler keeps walking. Jacobi shifts, tugging at the sharp lapel of his jacket, unable to think fast enough to use his words to stop him.

Kepler looks down at him, eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “Something wrong, Mister Jacobi?”

Jacobi didn’t think that far ahead, fumbling for words that jam in his head. “Can I, uh, could I stay with you, sir?”

Kepler blinks. Once. Twice. He doesn’t say anything, even as he doubles back to number thirty-seven, shifting Jacobi in his grip as he tries for his keys.

“Sir.”

Kepler hums from the back of his throat, his attention now focused on getting his keys out of his pocket without dropping Jacobi. An arduous task at best.

“ _Sir_.” Kepler doesn’t change course. “Sir!”

Kepler exhales, sending him a sharp look. “What?”

“Put me down, sir. I can walk, it’s fine.”

Kepler’s grip tightens around him for a second before he slowly lowers him. His hand stays steady at his waist, even as he unlocks the door, guiding him into the room.

Jacobi collapses onto the bed, the cool satin sheets real against his skin. In four, hold seven, out eight. He rolls onto his back to watch the ceiling lower and lift. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kepler, shrugging off his jacket and loosening his tie, setting them neatly on the bedside cabinet, unclipping his cufflinks and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

When he speaks, it’s contrast enough from the soft humming of the lights to steal his attention from the incredibly interesting ceiling, “Do you want me to…?” He gestures vaguely at Jacobi’s person.

This means nothing to him, so Jacobi, ever the wordsmith, stares blankly at him in total silence.

Kepler cards a frustrated hand through his hair. “Just—” he moves, the mattress sinking under his weight— “sit up for me?”

Jacobi shifts, sitting pliant as Kepler slowly takes off his tie for him, easing his jacket off rounded shoulders. This isn’t the first time Kepler has undressed him, but there’s something detached, almost formal about it all, especially when Kepler stops halfway through, disappearing out of Jacobi’s field of vision.

Jacobi starts as a t-shirt (soft, grey, a size too big, definitely not one of his) lands next to him.

Kepler’s voice manifests with a brief touch on his shoulder, “Go have a shower, Jacobi.”

The shower is, luckily for him, needlessly complicated and takes him far too long to figure out, which is _exactly_ what Jacobi’s dissociative self needed. Great. But the feeling of water on the back of his neck and an excuse to stare blindly into the middle distance is so surreal that it circles right back around to grounding reality.

Despite his best efforts to the contrary, he manages to catch a glimpse of himself in the least fogged up part of the mirror. He looks… God, he looks _tired_ , like he’s about to drop at any second, blank eyes and dragging shoulders. Mirror Jacobi stares, lifeless at him and he’s forced to remind himself that that’s _him_ , that’s his body. His head doesn’t seem to note the memo.

Kepler is sitting with his back against the headrest when Jacobi returns, carefully hiding the glance he shoots in his direction. Jacobi dutifully pretends he didn’t notice. Instead, he throws his folded—folded? When did he fold them?—clothes, on top of the closed suitcase.

Jacobi understands that, objectively, nothing about Kepler’s posture is openly inviting, his arms loose at his side, head tilted as he watches him approach. He also understands that he’s being clingy, but Kepler doesn’t protest when he climbs into his lap.

So Jacobi curls into Kepler’s chest, breathing in the scent of fabric softener and Kepler’s aftershave. He wraps his arms around his torso, solid and warm under his skin. “Hi.”

The smile woven through Kepler’s voice is painfully obvious as he says, “Hey.” His hands settle at his waist. “You comfortable?”

“Yeah.”

“D’you want to watch something?” _Take your mind off whatever this is,_ he doesn’t say.

Jacobi closes his eyes. The second he does, his thoughts derail, spilling static through his mind. He adjusts his arms around Kepler, sinking softly into the shadows behind his eyelids.

“Jacobi? Are you asleep?”

Jacobi cracks an eye open, dragging himself back to the quiet hotel room. “Sure am.”

“Wonderful. I’m going to turn on the TV. Is that okay?”

Jacobi nods. He doesn’t move from his position, though, remains pressed safely against Kepler’s chest. He can feel the blue wash of light on the back of his neck, fragments of words and music leaking softly into the room as Kepler flicks through channels.

The snatches settle into something a little more permanent, some woman with an East European accent complaining about her husband. From what Jacobi can follow, he renamed their cafe some woman’s name—or was it a flower? Maybe both?—either way, that was not okay because blah blah, ridiculous love drenched backstory. Jacobi tunes it out pretty quickly.

He’s not entirely sure how long he’s been shrugging off this quality programming in favour of thinking about literal nothing, but there’s a crick in his neck. He turns his head to get rid of it but ends up with the side of his head pressed against a suspiciously him-shaped dampness. That’s weird.

“Your shirt,” Jacobi mumbles into Kepler’s chest because it seems important that Kepler is made aware of this.

Kepler bows his head. “What about it?” There’s a hint of a smirk in his cadence.

“I’m getting your shirt wet. My hair, it’s, uh—” what’s the word?— “wet.” Jesus. Christ. “My hair’s getting your shirt wet,” he finishes lamely, wishing he could just shut up.

He can feel the vibration of Kepler’s chuckle against his cheekbones. “That’s okay, Jacobi.”

There’s an eternity of silence—not silence, but the low buzzing of the late night drama rerun—that lasts all of five seconds before Jacobi decides he’s sick of it.

“It’s the anxiety,” he mutters, tilting his head so Kepler can hear him, “it makes me dissociate. Coping mechanism or whatever, isolation from potential trauma.”

Kepler tenses underneath him, as if he didn’t expect him to spill his secrets, as if Jacobi hadn’t been spilling his secrets since the moment he met him.

“That’s what the shrink said, anyway. She said a lot, actually. Apparently, I’ve got a whole lot of issues.” He laughs to himself before the sadness of it all can catch up to him. “Can you believe that? The guy who breaks things for a living isn’t okay!” His voice doesn’t just crack on okay, it _shatters_.

Fuck. Fuck, shit, god _damnit_.

“Jacobi,” Kepler breathes and it’s disgust and pity and it’s disappointment incarnate.

 ~~“Jacobi,” Kepler breathes and it's hurt and it's concern and it's love incarnate~~.

Jacobi wants to never open his mouth again, ever, for the foreseeable future. But someone has to address this, and with Kepler’s track record and his lead arms, it’s not going to be him.

“Listen, sir,” he mumbles, his head screaming to put down the fucking spade, “I didn’t—it’s nothing, I’m fine, let’s not—”

Kepler finally moves abrupt and astoundingly gentle, pulling Jacobi further into his chest and burying his head in his hair. His hands are so warm, almost uncomfortably so, fingertips digging into his intercostals.

Jacobi doesn’t relax, but he lets Kepler lift his head, radiant hands on his jaw. His eyes, so subtly different that Jacobi hadn’t noticed his heterochromia for years, they look molten as they search his. Jacobi’s eyes squeeze tightly shut as Kepler presses a kiss into his forehead.

It’s wrong. The feeling of dread has been following Jacobi for a while, but this? Kepler’s chapstick stained lips so soft on his skin? This is a heavy weight in his gut, a swirling, dragging abyss in his stomach because they don’t do this, they never do this.

(Kepler always brings them back from that precipice with cold eyes and antipathy, wearing his disgust like a bloodied laurel, sharper than his barbed shark’s smile.)

When Jacobi opens his eyes, Kepler is wearing an expression that is entirely foreign on his face, upturned eyebrows, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“What can I do to help?” he whispers, drawing his thumb in a line across Jacobi’s cheekbone.

There are thousands of things he could say, from the genuine therapy approved advice to the patchwork of fucked up coping mechanisms he’s sewn together over the years, but what instead falls from his lips is, “Stay with me.”

Kepler doesn’t flinch, exactly, but there’s a movement somewhat adjacent that flickers through him, something Jacobi only knows because he’s pressed so close to his skin. Kepler doesn’t say anything, though, just breathes. (Jacobi swears he catches the four seven eight.)

Neither of them says a word. The thought _don’t make any promises you can’t keep,_ wanders across his mind. Jacobi closes his eyes, tracking Kepler’s breathing until it gets lost to the inky black behind his eyelids.

* * *

 

He doesn’t need to open his eyes to see the sunlight, dripping yellow and thick from the window sill, worming its way under his fingernails and cocooning his body. He scowls, cracking an eye open to the immediate realisation that any chance of a second more sleep is entirely lost.

The first thing he sees is Kepler, sun-softened and sleep blurred, his hair a wild mess on the pillow next to Jacobi’s. Something about the sight wrenches in Jacobi’s chest. Because he’s _here_ and he’s _now_ and Jacobi never expected anything from him. He certainly didn’t expect this, Kepler’s arm still slung protectively around Jacobi’s waist, hot against his skin, one leg hooked between his.

It’s good.

It’s not going to last.

Jacobi slowly shifts closer to him, tucking his head underneath Kepler’s. He’s here and he’s not going to let this moment slip.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for,,, months, so I'm sorry if this feels all very patchworked. Hit me up on tumblr if you want @imperial-evolution or @imp-blot for my writing blog! Thanks for reading, have a lovely day!


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